


Mon chéri.

by smartforholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Overdosing, Possible Character Death, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartforholmes/pseuds/smartforholmes
Summary: After Greg reveals he's been cheating, Mycroft's life spiral down with no control.Based on Mystrade Monday prompt #9 “I can't do this on my own.”
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/Original Male Character, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	Mon chéri.

On a cold night, in early January, Mycroft Holmes found out Gregory Lestrade, the golden Detective Inspector in New Scotland Yard was cheating on him.

Found out, after 3 wonderful years of relationship and unbreakable trust, his soon-to-be fiancé was seeing another man 6 months back in time. Vincent McCain, 41 years old, multimillionaire businessman born in Dublin, Ireland; no criminal record, and with an IQ of 183.

After experiencing such trauma, of recollect evidence to confirm Gregory's allegations, Mycroft proved himself everything was authentic and the man he swore he knew flawlessly, revealed how great of a liar he could be.

On a particularly frosty day, as Mycroft walked across London unsecured, too occupied living miserably, he unconsciously wandered all the way to NSY. Observing for the first time in the three months they have been separated, Lestrade and McCain, possibly on their way back to the Yard after Lunch.

Gregory, as handsome as always, looked down at his phone concentrated; while Vincent, on his right, was in the midst of a phone call, a cigarette in his right hand. As they got closer to the entrance of NSY, Vincent grabbed Gregory's face on his hands and kissed him gently. After they broke the kiss, Mycroft could read perfectly Greg's lips but refused to pay much attention to it.

After that day, Anthea scheduled a visit to a psychiatrist, worried about Mycroft's destructive behavior.

Mycroft wondered, not for the first time, if Gregory called Vincent the same endearments; wondered if he worshipped him in bed just like they did. Even if the answer was an unquestionable yes, Mycroft hoped Greg to still be in love with him and all of this being just an undesirable nightmare.

On the bad days, Mycroft found a safe place on the various recordings he had of Gregory during their vacations; such where they preferred to speak in fluent French. On them, Mycroft always thought thoroughly self-inflicted injuries were a way to relieve pain. Never going further than odd inventiveness.

The appointments with Dr. Choi became regular, and the elder Holmes found himself sitting in front of an unknown but well experienced Asian Psychiatric, the finest in his area; sobbing and expressing in a broken voice how utterly awful he felt every time he saw Gregory and his current lover.

Until one day everything came to a breaking point.

CCTV showed Gregory, _his_ Gregory in a distinguished Jewelry in central London, peeking and consulting about engagement rings. A delightful smile on his face and a dull flush in his cheeks as he spoke with a jeweler.

Mycroft dropped everything and left his office; alone, sobbing and losing himself on the backseat of his Jaguar, Holmes could only plead for mercy.

Once inside his flat, a psychotic plan formed on his mind. Mycroft walked all the way to his study, searching under the desk for, an unknown to many, secret compartment, where a packet of Xanax and various sleeping pills hid.

He strode to the bar and grabbed the most expensive scotch bottle he found and poured it into a glass, swallowing it all the way breathlessly.

And so he drunk, and drunk, and drunk.

Tear after tear, sob after sob, valuable object after valuable object being thrown against the wall.

In the midst of his affliction, Mycroft acknowledged his appearance; 1-month unshaven beard adorning his face, dark circles under his once bright grey eyes, and out of sorts hair. Pale skin due to the forthcoming drug overdose.

Within the hour, Mycroft laid on the floor, his back against the settee, a dangerous amount of alcohol, and 3 Xanax tablets on his system. He perked up, and between obfuscated images, caught the portrait of Gregory in a picture hanging on top of the fire.

“Why did you do this to me?” The politician slurred, tears streaming down his face. “Why did you do this to me?!” He yelled, throwing the scotch bottle against the picture, the fraction of glass exploding on the wall.

“I... I can't... Oh, God...” Mycroft sobbed, grabbing his head between his hands as the Xanax made effect, making him feel misplaced and paranoid. “I can't do this on my own... I can't...”

Gregory and Vincent's image haunted him, and Mycroft soon realized he was shouting inconsolably, his eyes tight shut, and nails digging onto his scalp making him bleed.

Trying to destroy that image from his head.

Trying to cease their voices.

Trying to survive.

Trying to forget.

That was all Mycroft could think of before darkness and anguish claimed him, a distinct tone warning a phonecall vanishing in the distance.

...

 _"_ _Coucou_ _..."_

A faded voice echoed in the corridors of his Mind Palace, approaching him unhurriedly. He would acknowledge that glorious and astonishing accent even on the verge of insanity.

_"Tu dors?"_

Mycroft opened his eyes gradually, glimpsing at the silhouette standing not far away from where he was succumbing. Uncovering his ears cautiously, the voice got closer and the faint essence of cinnamon and wood inundated the location.

_"Oh,_ _j'suis_ _désolée_ _... Bah non, nan, c'est pas important."_

A weak laugh broke out from his lips, haunted by a cracked cry at Greg's precious giggle. Gregory's voice ached deep down his soul, matchless to the living inferno he had to overcome during his earlier days in the MI6, incomparable to previous relationships. Unique, just like Gregory.

_"Bon_ _allez_ _... on a_ _été_ _à la plage,_ _et_ _maintenant_ _on..."_

Tears stained his cheeks without notice, a livid memory of their time in Ibiza with Sherlock, John, and Rosie. He remembered how he couldn't attend a picnic on the seashore on a wonderful summer day, so exhausted from work —as always— and his stunning Gregory didn't forfeit the opportunity to leave a voicemail. _This voicemail._

_"I'm on my way, my dear,"_ Mycroft muttered, lost on his own world. _"I'm on my way..."_

He reached out, making an effort to brush his fingers against Gregory's, who was standing before his mere eyes. As he's getting nigher and the warmth of Lestrade's body is perceptible, voices tug him back to where he belongs.

_"Parfait!”_

Inside Mycroft's flat, Anthea and Sherlock try desperately to keep him conscious, Sherlock holds Mycroft against his chest, vomit splashed beside them and on Sherlock's trousers. Anthea phones an ambulance, alerting them to arrive instantly, notifying them of Mycroft's position.

And sending a message to Greg Lestrade.

As Mycroft holds up his hand, and utters a single name, Sherlock begins to implore to whomever people believe in for the very first time for Greg to arrive as soon as possible, to be able to explain everything to Mycroft before... Before he —

Mycroft's hand falls to his side helplessly and his mouth curls into a tiny smile. And as his eyelids become immensely heavy, the eldest Holmes surrenders to darkness and solace as Sherlock shouts his name between tears; entitling Gregory's tone to lead him to a place where he can ultimately rest, Mycroft closes his eyes.

**_"Chéri."_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Gregory's voicemail:
> 
> “Hello!” 
> 
> “Are you asleep?” 
> 
> “Oh, I’m sorry… Well, no, no, it’s not important.”
> 
> “Well… We went to the beach and we…”
> 
> “Perfect!”
> 
> “Honey.”


End file.
